Becoming Without Permission – By Krystle S. Maharaj

We rise and the morning does not ask who we are,
For it already has names for us,
Soft ones, sharp ones, inherited ones, imposed ones,
Woven tightly into the fabric of our becoming.

And we wear our masks like polished brass,
Like Carnival queens in borrowed gold,
But the mirror is never fooled,
It reflects the truest masquerade untold.

Be soft, but not too vulnerable,
Be resilient, but not intimidating.
Be desirable, but not wanting.
Be present, but not loud.
Be everything without taking up space.

And we learn the choreography of contradiction,
Perfecting the steps that undo us,
The way dancers learn pain,
By repeating it until it looks like grace.

At work, we are efficient without friction.
At home, we are comfort without collapse.
In love, we are presence without need.
In public, we are seen but contained.
In private, we are asked to vanish quietly,
So no one has to count the cost of remaining.

We were not made to be endless for others and empty for ourselves…

And one day, in the quiet violence of reflection,
We see it.
Not the woman the world composed,
But the one who existed before permission.

And the fire within us,
Once hidden, once disciplined, once mistaken for danger,
Rises like a phoenix, reborn and raw.

And in that remembering,
We do not become someone new.
We return to ourselves,
Unfiltered, uninterrupted, unclaimed.